The Dragon Charmer

by Jan Siegel

  “Not for me,” she said, horrified to find herself on the verge of tears. “Maybe I’m too young for you. Or you’re too old for me. Too wise, too worldly, too—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that sounds cruel. I didn’t mean it so. I think something got lost, in the eighteen years between us. There was a level where we might have met, a different plane which… But it’s gone, it’s gone for good, we won’t find it now. I’m so sorry, Marcus…”

  “Leave it,” he insisted. “You’re not in a state to make decisions. We’ll talk again in a week or so.”

  “I need to be on my own…”

  He grimaced. “I’ve just driven up. I was planning to stay over—leave around six in the morning. I’ve got a lecture tomorrow. No, don’t worry. It’s probably easiest if I head back now. I’ll call you.”

  “All right,” Fern said, seizing control of herself. He would accept it, she thought, given time. Liking, affection, respect—he could find those with someone else. With any number of someone elses.

  “Good-bye, Marcus.”

  “Bye, darling.”

  And so he went, leaving her alone. Presently Robin and Abby assisted her out to the car. Ragginbone followed, with the patchwork bag.

  “I’m not going to marry Marcus,” Fern told her relatives, back at Dale House. “I know you’ve both gone to a lot of trouble, spent serious money—I’ll pay you back, Dad, I’ve got plenty of savings—”

  “No, no.” Robin waved away the offer with genuine revulsion. “Just want you to be happy, that’s all. Not a bad chap, Marcus, but I never thought he was the one for you. Didn’t stick around long when you were in hospital. So much for that ‘in sickness and in health’ bit.”

  “He couldn’t help it,” Fern said. “He’s fond of me—he really is—but he’s not good at sitting still.” She went on, rather wearily: “We’ll have to return the presents. Oh lord, all that packing…I’ll make a start soon.”

  “I’ve done it,” Abby said. “They’re all ready to go.”

  Fern squeezed her hand and looked at her long and silently, and Abby, like Ragginbone, thought: She’s different. Something about the eyes…

  Yoda attempted to jump on Fern’s lap, falling well short of his goal. Absentmindedly Fern picked him up and stroked his head.

  “Where’s Lougarry?” she asked.

  “I think Will took her,” Robin said. “Odd, that. He and Gaynor went off to find a specialist; can’t think where they’ve got to. Not necessary now, I’m glad to say. Bit worrying, though. They haven’t phoned, not while I’ve been here. They’re adults, they can take care of themselves. All the same…”

  “Perhaps they’ve gone for a romantic weekend,” said Abby, “though it seems a strange time to choose.”

  “I doubt it,” said Ragginbone, entering with tea and Mrs. Wicklow, who, in an unusual excess of sentiment, was dabbing her cheeks with a skein of toilet paper. “They were both far too concerned about Fern to think of something like that. They’ll turn up.”

  “If it’s not one thing it’s another,” said Mrs. Wicklow, pulling herself together. “It’s that Redmond woman, I’m sure of it. Saw her in t’mirror, I did. You want to get the vicar round to do an exorcism. I don’t hold with that sort of thing mostly, but I reckon it’s needed here.”

  “Oh, no, we can’t do that,” said Fern. “It would upset the house-goblin.”

  It was some time before she found herself alone with Ragginbone.

  “Well?” she said. She was still idly caressing Yoda, the gentleness of her hands at variance with the edge in her voice. “You must have some idea where they’ve gone.”

  “I fear,” said the Watcher, “they may have gone to look for a dragon—or someone who knows about dragons. There is a story—a rumor that the last of dragonkind still lives, with a splinter of the Lodestone lodged in his heart. Will’s theory was that the touch of the Stone might help to bring you back. I didn’t have a chance to speak to them, but Gaynor seems to have remembered seeing a manuscript that might be relevant. Unfortunately, it’s in a museum with one Dr. Laye on the board”

  “They’ve gone to meet Dr. Laye?”

  “I doubt if I could have dissuaded them, even if I’d had the opportunity. Will was very determined.”

  “He would be,” Fern said bitterly. “I have to find them. Dr. Laye sold himself to the Oldest Spirit. He’s like an ambulant, only worse. They’re both in there, sharing his body, sharing his mind. He’s a descendant of the dragon charmers, and the Oldest One is feeding off him, using his skill. He’s got the dragon imprisoned somewhere, beneath a well…”

  “You know a lot,” said Ragginbone. “More than I.” There was a hint of enquiry in his tone.

  “I haven’t time to explain,” said Fern. “Where’s this museum?”

  “You can do nothing till tomorrow,” Ragginbone said sternly. “You’ve exhausted your power simply getting out of bed. You must rest. Without your Gift, you’ll be no use to Will and Gaynor, whatever trouble they’re in. We have to trust them.”

  “And the dragon?” said Fern.

  “Let’s hope it stays where it’s penned. None of us can do much against a dragon.” He went on, perhaps with the object of diverting her. “Tell me about the Tree. And Morgus. It was Morgus, wasn’t it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “A long shot. A lucky guess. Go on.”

  So she told him. About the two hags hovering around the spellfire, the visions she had seen there, her lessons in witchcraft, Kal. She told him everything, or almost everything.

  “What,” he said at last, “is in the bag?”

  “A watermelon,” said Fern, and she did not smile.

  She went to bed early, pleading fatigue. Robin and Abby followed suit; Ragginbone had already left. She needs to recoup her strength, he told himself. She would never be so foolish as to face Azmordis in her present condition. Tomorrow…

  “Tomorrow will be too late,” Fern said to the darkness. Beneath the duvet she was still in underwear and tight-fitting sweater. Jeans, jacket, and trainers lay ready to hand. The curtains were not completely drawn and the glimmer of the paler gloom outside showed in the gap. Presently the moon peered through, a gibbous moon, old and pockmarked, its stunted profile blurred by a nimbus of milky light. Its groping gaze reached toward the bed but fell short, cut off by the shadow of the pelmet. A night bird passed by, unusually close, calling out in a croaking scream that Fern could not identify. She was glad of the dark that hid her, wary even of the moon. She listened for the telltale grumble of the plumbing, the final shutting of the other bedroom door. Perhaps as a result of her recent experiences, perhaps because she was surviving on adrenaline shots of raw power, she found that now her vision had adjusted she could see in the dark far better than ever before, distinguishing outlines formerly hidden in the dimness of the room. At last Robin’s door closed and the house subsided gradually into silence. “Bradachin!” Fern called. Her voice was a whisper without softness, hissing like a knife blade. He took shape reluctantly, one shade among many, but she saw him. “I need you.”

  “Ye woudna speak tae me for many a year, yet now ye’re ordering me like a servant—”

  “This is no time to stand on your dignity. I had my reasons; you know that, if you know anything. I was fond of your predecessor—or at least I pitied him. He was weak. Will says you’re strong, brave and strong. He and Gaynor are in trouble. I’m going after them. I’ll need your help.”

  “Ye’re meaning tae gae after them tonight?”

  “Yes. Now. Tonight.”

  “I’m thinking ye shoudna be doing that, hinny. Ye’ve slept tae long tae gae running aboot the noo; ye maun be puggled.”

  “Probably,” said Fern, in too much haste to attempt to decipher his dialect. “I’m going anyway. Can you see to it that my father and Abby don’t wake? I might do it, but it would exhaust whatever I’ve got left and that isn’t much.”

  “I can do a pickle charming, aye, but if ye would be savin
g your brother ye’ll need your cantrips. Ye canna gae after Trouble withoot them.”

  “I’ll be all right. Stop fussing: it wastes time. While you’re in the other room, can you get my father’s car keys? My car’s at the garage, and Will’s taken his, so the Volvo’s my only option. The keys will be on the dressing table. Will you recognize them?”

  “Aye, but”

  “Good,” said Fern. “Hurry.”

  When she was sure he had gone she slid her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. There was a millisecond of dizziness, of knees folding, muscles failing; but she forced a surge of energy through every artery, every junction of bone and sinew, and the weakness passed. The patchwork bag lay where Ragginbone had left it, on the floor by her bed. She squatted down beside it and reached for the flap then hesitated, taken with a sudden trembling, a nascent horror of the thing inside. Beyond reality, in the dimension of the Tree, she had accepted every aspect of her strange environment without qualm or question, existing in a dream state where the bizarre became the norm. But here, beset by Time, pressured by the fears and feelings of the everyday world, she could not suppress her loathing at the thought of the object she had brought with her. It took all her self-control to open the bag and seize the severed stem, flinching from the touch of hair. Averting her eyes, she lifted it out, propped it up on her pillow. It seemed to her a dreadful unnatural thing, a form of obscenity, this head without body or limb. She must not look at the squirming neck stump, leaking sap; she must concentrate on the features—the dark familiar features of the dragon charmer. Ruvindra Laiï, her partner, her ally. She focused her gaze on his face, only his face, murmuring his name. In this ordinary bedroom the black geometry of his bones seemed somehow more rarefied, more dauntingly beautiful, arrogant as an antique prince, ominous as a malediction; his eyes opened onto a glimmer of blue, like witch-fires seen from far off. With that wakening, his personality dominated the night.

  “We have little time,” he said, and the soft dark voice was somehow shocking, against nature, coming from undeveloped vocal cords, from lips without lungs. “The fruit of the Eternal Tree was not meant for this world. This head will rot quickly in the clear air and the hasty hours. We must move now, before it is too late. Do you know where we can find this recreant offspring of my house?”

  “No,” said Fern. “But I can find out.” She withdrew her gaze from him, still shaking with latent horror, and began to pull on her jeans.

  “The old man,” the head remarked, “he whom you spoke with earlier—he reminded me of one I knew, though that was long ago.”

  “He’s been around quite a while.”

  “What of the goblin? They say malmorths make mischievous enemies and treacherous friends. They are little in all things: they will stab you in the back with a silver pin, and desert you for a bowl of broth.”

  “I expect so,” Fern said indifferently, lacing up her trainers. Suddenly she looked straight at him. “What do they say of a dragon charmer who broke faith with the creatures he loved*—an oath breaker who sold his soul and cheated on the bargain—an apple that talks, pilfered from the Tree of Life and Death?”

  “They say the thief must be fearless, to pluck such deadly fruit. There is a secret hardness in you, Fernanda, like a single thread of steel in a knot of silk. For that alone, I would trust you—if we had not come so far that trust is no longer relevant.”

  “You aren’t particularly trustworthy,” said Fern. “But I never doubted you.” She picked up the patchwork bag and squinted closely at it: the tattered fragments of cloth were already pulling away from the stitching. She dropped it again and rifled briskly in the wardrobe, emerging with a small carpetbag on a shoulder strap. “I’m sure Perseus never had this trouble,” she remarked.

  “I brought ye the keys,” said a voice behind her. Bradachin had reappeared, carrying not only the car keys but an ancient spear nearly twice his own height. He was staring fixedly at the head.

  “What’s that for?” asked Fern.

  “I thought I might be needing it.”

  She frowned, but let it go. “Are the others sleeping?”

  “Aye. I ken a lullaby or two for the likes o’ they. If ye dinna make a noise, they won’t be waking long awhile. Cailin…”

  “Well done,” said Fern. “Thanks. Could you—would you tell Ragginbone where I’ve gone? Tell him I’m sorry. I ought to write a note but I haven’t time.”

  “I’m thinking he’ll know weel enough. Cailin, I dinna ken what ye want with yon, but… ye’re mixing in devil’s magic here. Ye shoudna gae meddling in necromancy—”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Fern said. “I think.” She picked up the head again and placed it carefully in the new bag, this time without a shudder, if only because Bradachin was watching. “If I don’t come back, tell them… Oh, never mind. I can’t bother about that now.”

  “Ye must tell them yourself,” said Bradachin, “if ye can. I’m coming wi’ ye.”

  “You can’t do that.” Fern paused, disconcerted. “You’re a house-goblin.”

  “Ye’ll need me. How waur ye planning tae enter the museum, in the midst o’ the night? There’ll be alarums and such, nae doot. Ye woudna be much guid as a lock picker, Gifted or no.”

  “Can you break in? If you’re not invited…”

  “It’s no a hoose. Any road, when there’s kidnapping and worse afoot, the laws don’t hold. Dinna fret, cailin. I’m coming wi’ ye. I’m nae afeard o’ Trouble. And I ha’ the spear. This is the Sleer Bronaw, the war spear o’ the McCrackens. When their sons’ sons turned tae drinkers o’ milk and takers o’ daily baths, it came tae me. There’s nae man can stand agin this spear.”

  It looked far too large and unwieldy for the goblin to use, but Fern refrained from comment. “And this?” she said, touching the bag at her side.

  “Aye,” said Bradachin after a pause. “I fear yon heid. I fear all black sortilege. But…”

  “But?”

  “I’m coming wi’ ye.”

  Fern said no more. They stole softly down the stairs into the hall. She switched on a light to consult the telephone directory, found the two addresses she wanted, and went outside to the car. Bradachin and his antique weapon disappeared somehow into the back. In the driver’s seat, she searched the side pockets for the necessary maps; Robin, trained by his daughter, always traveled in a welter of cartography. Although Gaynor had taken the main ordinance survey map from the study, years of driving around Yorkshire meant the car was well stocked with alternatives. “I don’t know the area at all well,” Fern told Bradachin. “Can you direct me?” A grunt answered her. Then she turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred into unobtrusive life. As they swept out of the drive and onto the open road, she put her foot down on the throttle, and began to drive much too fast southwest toward York.

  It was nearly midnight when they reached the suburbs. The dingy aureole of the city was reflected off a low-slung cloud canopy, not illuminating the sky but merely smudging it with a kind of dirty glimmer. In the country the clouds had form and depth, moon-edged or rent into pale tatters across a gap of stars, but here they were shapeless, a vast, lowering gloom. With the aid of a street map they found the road they wanted. Fern parked awkwardly with her nearside wheels on the sidewalk, unaccustomed to handling so large a vehicle. Bradachin faded from the interior of the car without using the door; Fern got out in a more mundane fashion. There was a strange, stifled silence over this part of the city, as if the sagging cloud cover was crushing the air against the earth, muffling noise. The sound of nearby footsteps, a burst of laughter, a sudden shout, carried as though in a long, low room rather than outdoors. The museum was an old house among other old houses, with little to distinguish it save the plaque on the door. It was ugly with the ponderous, labored ugliness of the late Victorians, weather grimed, its black windows uncurtained and unforthcoming. On one side there was a gate in a high wall overhung with some dark shrub; Fern tried the latch and it ope
ned easily, admitting her to a shabby strip of garden tangled with plant shadows. There was a smell of dank vegetation, of last year’s leaves rotting unswept on pathway and lawn, of new growth choked with old. It reminded her of the Tree, and with that memory a subtle change came over her, though she herself was not aware of it. She had been moving like any ordinary person who is trying to be quiet; now, her whole body became more fluid, noiseless and circumspect as a wild creature. Her senses strained; her dilating eyes soaked up every atom of light. She could see a bent twig, a broken paving. Around the back of the building she went to a window and peered in, making out an empty office, an open door, a glimpse of the passage beyond. She felt Bradachin materialize close by her.

  “I assume there’s no one there.”

  “No a body in the place. I coudna find ought but books, many books, and parchments and scribblings. Men will iver be scribbling and scribbling o’ something. There’s alarums tae protect them, with beams crissing and crossing, like all yon books waur a treasure o’ gold. I could fix them for ye, if ye waur wishing tae gae in, but it would tak’ a while.”

  “We haven’t got a while,” said Fern. “It isn’t necessary.” She turned back to the garden, conscious of a sudden prickling down her spine, an inexplicable disquiet. Here at the back the shrubs had run wild, clotted into thickets black with something more than ordinary darkness. There was no coherent form, no discernible movement, but she saw the eyes for a moment before they winked out: the narrow, whiteless eyes of something that watches from under a stone.

  “Did you see it?”

  “Aye,” said Bradachin, and there was a note in his voice she had not heard before, a change of timbre that was close to fear.

  “What was it?”

  “I’m no sure … If it wa’ what I thought, he shouldna be here. He’s muckle far from home. The pugwidgies are no meant for our world.”

  “What’s a pugwidgie?” asked Fern.

  “Ye dinna want tae find oot,” said Bradachin. “They’re his creatures, from his place. They come from Azmodel.”